Ok, so, I've decided to focus this blog on subjects related to writing. It's what I do. It's what I would like to get paid for doing. And it's something I feel I'm good at.
So, on the subject of writing, it should be obvious to anyone who knows me (or even reads this blog) that I have a very short attention span. In fact, I believe I mention it in every entry related to writing. Ok, yeah, I tend to repeat myself. Sue me. Anyways, one thing I like to do is vignettes. Although that term is usually associated with scripts and poetry, I like the term for what is more commonly refered to as flash fiction, sudden fiction, microfiction, micro-story, postcard fiction, prosetry and short short story. Basically, it's just a small peep into a larger story. I usually do these for my RPG characters, just to help me get a feel for the setting and story, and how my character fits in. I find them great fun, and good warm up exercises to keep my writing muscles loose. I'm curious if anyone else ever does these?
Below is one of my favorites that I did a few years back for a World of Warcraft character. I had created him on a PvP server, and this little snippet was a fictionalized narrative of his first (and my first) PvP experience. Enjoy. And comment and/or critique if you like.
***
Uthorius had been tracking the elusive orc for hours. It was a hunter, just as he was, and a crafty one. It always amazed the night elf how such foul and savage creatures as orcs could master the subtler arts of woodsmanship. And yet here was proof of just that.
The elf had run across the tracks while hunting bear here in Ashenvale. It had only been three footprints, and not very deep. But they were broad and long, and turned slightly inward, indicating an orc, rather then say a dwarf or human. Nearby, Uthorius had also found a paw print of some large cat.
So, it has a pet as well. He had thought. His hand strayed to his own pet wolf, Fleabag. So named for his annoying habit of stopping to scratch himself at the most awkward times, including combat on occasion. A hunter’s bond with his pet was supernatural, and thoughts and feelings were shared at an instinctive level, making the pair a powerful team.
“Worry not,” he whispered to Fleabag, “your teeth will soon be at the throat of this one’s pet kitten.”
Uthorius was not entirely familiar with these woods, having only recently come to them. But he was fast learning their layout. So he knew that just over the next rise was Raynewood Retreat, an outpost of druids and centaurs. He was on friendly terms with them, and he knew that if the orc had passed nearby, they would probably know of it.
As he crested the ridge, the site that assailed him made the night elf’s blood boil.
In front of the elven structure was a scene of unprecedented carnage. Several elven druids, some still in bear-form lay dead or dying. And in the middle of it all, crouching on the ramp into the retreat stood the orc. He was a muscular brute, with black oily hair. Uthorius could almost smell the filth that surely wafted from the crude leather armor it wore. Beside it was a large cat, it’s tawny hide and short mane indicating it to be one of those native to the Barrens.
Presently, the orc hadn’t noticed the approach of the elf, so Uthorius took cover behind a tree and unslung his bow and drew an arrow, all in one fluid movement. The creature was raising its own bow, and taking a bead on something inside the building. The elf raised his and in turn took a bead on the orc, instinctively keeping Fleabag near his side. He knew that as soon as he let the shaft go, the cat would react by rushing him.
Although he wanted to shoot the orc before it could do more harm, he knew that, tactically, it would be better to catch the creature in a crossfire of sorts. So, he waited until the orc fired, trusting in the toughness and healing abilities of its target to withstand the first arrow. As it did so, Uthorius let his own shaft fly, imbuing it with magic force that would stun the creature upon impact.
The shot was straight and true, and impacted with an audible crack. The orc grunted and reeled, but was unable to react, as a giant bear charged out of the building and attacked. As he knew it would, the orc’s pet reacted by running towards the elf. But it never got close, as the white form of Fleabag bolted from cover and met the cat’s charge with snarling fury.
The elf let shaft after shaft fly, some imbued with more magical energy, causing greater harm. Between the expertly shot arrows and the druid’s bear-form attacks, the orc stood no chance. Before it could even register that it was being attacked from two sides, it was down. And as it fell, it’s cat disappeared in a puff, it’s supernatural link temporarily broken.
Uthorius took a moment to revel in the victory. But he knew it was only a small one. For death was anything but permanent in Azeroth. And he knew that the orc would probably be back.
Perhaps it will have learned a lesson, though, and decide to steer clear of elven lands. Not likely, as orcs are notoriously stubborn and thick-headed. So, Uthorius and those like him would always be here to defend the realms from such savage stupidity.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Writing and Me
The seeds of my interest in writing were planted when I was very young. I was always a very capable reader, even before kindergarten. And as an only child, reading and making up stories was how I spent a lot of my childhood. I remember Flat Stanley being one of my favorite books, and I had a small stack of comics that I read through several times. Stuart Little and Charlotte's Web soon followed. When I was about 9 or 10, my stepdad would make me read books that were obviously meant for adults. I remember being forced to read a book called Kathy. It was about a young girl who was paralyzed, and how she and her family learned to cope with it (yeah, depressing for a 10 year old). And once, when I got in trouble, that same stepdad told me "Go to your room and read your bible." So I did. I started with Genesis 1:1, and made it to somewhere in Psalms before being called for dinner. My mom had no idea where I was. Yeah, he didn't last much longer.
Anyways, at the beginning of 6th grade, I moved from Kansas back to my hometown in California, and at school there I was introduced to Dungeons & Dragons. Vin Diesel, in his introduction to 30 Years of Adventure, called D&D "the training ground for the imagination." And that's exactly what it was for me. Because it lead to me seeing Conan the Barbarian, which lead me to reading the Ace editions (all 12), the first of which I had initially thought was based on the movie. I have learned a LOT about the character since then (which is a subject for a whole other post), and I was introduced to the most influential writer for me: Robert E. Howard. Now, I'm not going to go on and on about Bob, but suffice it to say, if you have any interest in well-told stories of action and adventure, and you haven't read anything of his, you should remedy that post haste.
Anyways, D&D also lead me to other genres of RPGs, which also lead me to read other genres of fiction. I can safely say that, to date, I have read at least one novel from every genre (and just about every sub-genre) one can name. Even a couple of romances. But my writing remained solidly in the fantasy and science fiction genres. Until I met Mack Bolan.
In 1984, my friend Matt and I had a healthy (or maybe unhealthy) interest in guns and other military hardware (no doubt due to his extensive collection of realistic Airsoft guns). One day, while waiting for the bus at the Air Force base I found myself living on (mom had joined up, which was what spurred my move from Kansas in the first place, and her dumping the Stepdad From Hell), I saw the cover of Crude Kill on the book rack. For a discounted price that was below $2, I entered the world of Men's Adventure, and developed a deep passion for Mack Bolan and his brand of justice (for those who don't know, Marvel Comics' The Punisher was unofficially based on/copied from Mack Bolan). Later I would try to write my own stories about an original character named Darryl Knox. I recently found the notebook I used. Horribly bad writing, to say the least.
Anyways, from backgrounds for RPG characters (particularly Tomos Elvenblood, my half-elf fighter...ok, stopping there) and the misadventures of Darryl Knox and Iroc Thompson (Matt's creation), I have spent the last 25+ years playing at writing. Many genres, many characters, many stories. Some good, some so-so, and some downright icky. What it all amounts to is about 1,000+ starts, dozens of vignettes, and a handful of complete short stories (none of which are publishable).
Do I dare call myself a writer yet? I don't know. What does that mean, exactly? I write, so technically I guess that makes me a writer. Hell, I'm writing right this minute. But without a full story told, a writer may as well be a chimp at a keyboard. True? I've always been of the opinion that publication is required to obtain that title. Then again, maybe that's the difference between a writer and an author.
My conundrum is that I am like a raccoon when it comes to writing. I get very passionate about a project, until something else shiny catches my eye, and I lose focus, drive and momentum. Of course, my problem lately has been focus to begin with. Life has handed me and my family a lot of lemons lately, so it's difficult to set aside the real world, and plunge into the fantasy realms where my stories lay.
So, there you have it. The history of Tom the Writer. Will he ever make it beyond where he is? Hmmmm...
Anyways, at the beginning of 6th grade, I moved from Kansas back to my hometown in California, and at school there I was introduced to Dungeons & Dragons. Vin Diesel, in his introduction to 30 Years of Adventure, called D&D "the training ground for the imagination." And that's exactly what it was for me. Because it lead to me seeing Conan the Barbarian, which lead me to reading the Ace editions (all 12), the first of which I had initially thought was based on the movie. I have learned a LOT about the character since then (which is a subject for a whole other post), and I was introduced to the most influential writer for me: Robert E. Howard. Now, I'm not going to go on and on about Bob, but suffice it to say, if you have any interest in well-told stories of action and adventure, and you haven't read anything of his, you should remedy that post haste.
Anyways, D&D also lead me to other genres of RPGs, which also lead me to read other genres of fiction. I can safely say that, to date, I have read at least one novel from every genre (and just about every sub-genre) one can name. Even a couple of romances. But my writing remained solidly in the fantasy and science fiction genres. Until I met Mack Bolan.
In 1984, my friend Matt and I had a healthy (or maybe unhealthy) interest in guns and other military hardware (no doubt due to his extensive collection of realistic Airsoft guns). One day, while waiting for the bus at the Air Force base I found myself living on (mom had joined up, which was what spurred my move from Kansas in the first place, and her dumping the Stepdad From Hell), I saw the cover of Crude Kill on the book rack. For a discounted price that was below $2, I entered the world of Men's Adventure, and developed a deep passion for Mack Bolan and his brand of justice (for those who don't know, Marvel Comics' The Punisher was unofficially based on/copied from Mack Bolan). Later I would try to write my own stories about an original character named Darryl Knox. I recently found the notebook I used. Horribly bad writing, to say the least.
Anyways, from backgrounds for RPG characters (particularly Tomos Elvenblood, my half-elf fighter...ok, stopping there) and the misadventures of Darryl Knox and Iroc Thompson (Matt's creation), I have spent the last 25+ years playing at writing. Many genres, many characters, many stories. Some good, some so-so, and some downright icky. What it all amounts to is about 1,000+ starts, dozens of vignettes, and a handful of complete short stories (none of which are publishable).
Do I dare call myself a writer yet? I don't know. What does that mean, exactly? I write, so technically I guess that makes me a writer. Hell, I'm writing right this minute. But without a full story told, a writer may as well be a chimp at a keyboard. True? I've always been of the opinion that publication is required to obtain that title. Then again, maybe that's the difference between a writer and an author.
My conundrum is that I am like a raccoon when it comes to writing. I get very passionate about a project, until something else shiny catches my eye, and I lose focus, drive and momentum. Of course, my problem lately has been focus to begin with. Life has handed me and my family a lot of lemons lately, so it's difficult to set aside the real world, and plunge into the fantasy realms where my stories lay.
So, there you have it. The history of Tom the Writer. Will he ever make it beyond where he is? Hmmmm...
Jack of Some Trades...
I recently had a revelation of sorts. I am "above average" at a lot of things, and some things I am downright "good" at. But there is nothing I can call myself an "expert" at. Or even "highly skilled." I mean, I can draw better than the average person, but I'm nowhere near professional level. I can write a decent story, but my writing is very unpolished, and I have a horrible time with getting through a single project. I know a lot about computers, but anything more than maintenance and I get lost (the exception to that is MS Excel...I have taught classes in that).
I could go on, but the point is, all of my life-experience and education has produced nothing more than someone who is slightly above-average in many regards, but in the big picture, nothing spectacular.
And this is what places me where I am in life. I am turning 40 years old this year. I look around and see people I went to high school with enjoying fruitful lives, with steady careers, many with advanced college degrees. And then I look in the mirror and see a person whose only definable contribution is that he is a good husband and dad. And on some days, even those are debatable.
Mind you, this isn't a bitch-fest, or a woe-is-me blog post. This is just me, putting my life in perspective, and trying to figure out what I am doing here. I have no goals or aspirations to speak of. I mean, I'd love to be a published author, or a screenwriter, or a game-designer. I know I am an inherently creative person, and my instincts tell me I should follow that course somehow.
So, here it is. Time to decide how I will make a life and career out of being creative...
I could go on, but the point is, all of my life-experience and education has produced nothing more than someone who is slightly above-average in many regards, but in the big picture, nothing spectacular.
And this is what places me where I am in life. I am turning 40 years old this year. I look around and see people I went to high school with enjoying fruitful lives, with steady careers, many with advanced college degrees. And then I look in the mirror and see a person whose only definable contribution is that he is a good husband and dad. And on some days, even those are debatable.
Mind you, this isn't a bitch-fest, or a woe-is-me blog post. This is just me, putting my life in perspective, and trying to figure out what I am doing here. I have no goals or aspirations to speak of. I mean, I'd love to be a published author, or a screenwriter, or a game-designer. I know I am an inherently creative person, and my instincts tell me I should follow that course somehow.
So, here it is. Time to decide how I will make a life and career out of being creative...
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